Lou

I came across these verses upon an old school CCNY notebook’s hard cover page;
Apparently written by a boy I once knew. He may have been all of 10 years old. Maybe his father had these notebooks.
The kid wrote them about a sports star he looked up to.
Unfortunately, I didn’t find it timely enough to make my new poetry book’s publishing deadline, nor does the #Wordpress.com platform apparently now allow one to link a book cover click which directs interested readers to the purchase page. It’s a SHAME! Geez. Go away and write for a couple of years, and they change shit without letting loyal clients KNOW!!
Therefore, I post it upon this blog, which was deeply neglected while I composed and published my new poetry book, whose cover you can see in the right sidebar (“During Our Lovemaking Session…”) . Thanks a million, most humbly, as always, for your time reading my words.

“LOU” [circa 1970]

Lou is baad
Everyone knows
His hook is deadly
The statistics show.
But Lou is a rookie
And like every newborn
Moves and truths he as to learn.

A year has passed (is past?)
And already he’s tasted
The sweet excitement of that playoff test.

Lou pulls rebounds
Lou throws hooks
Lou takes jumpers,
Which no center should!

Lou stuffed and the crowd loved
Lou from college fame
Everyone now knows his name!
He comes home – all that and shit
Spin and shoot and everyone boos.

Now Lou is on the bench,
The giant now laid to rest;
Where a team from hometown
New York City power
Takes the eastern conference crown.

[found upon a 1970-ish CCNY cardboard notebook cover]

Mattie Melissa (I’ll Miss Ya)

Alas, I didn’t keep in touch

A streaking comet of care was our love affair.

Ten years later finding letters of devotion from thee;

Sorry Bro

Too late again;

Now you will read the cache you found

Of her love letters last decade

So profound and caring,

In that print she printed.

Now you will cry like when your mama died,

Once more.

Having missed a chance for the companionship

Of forever love.

Weep, “Music Man”, weep

One of her nicknames for me.

Cry in your sleep!

Dreams are so deep;

Just last night you dreamt you would call her

Say, “Hey, how have you been?”

Just last week you heard her voice,

On answering machine cassette out of storage

Her love for you was historic warm winter porridge.

Now you will save that tape till you die;

No lie.

Feel your forehead at the chances blown

For forever romantic bodily warmth

Which leave you today lonely

Uttering the shameful, “If only” – again.

Just a shadow in your rear view mirror

With soft Brie cheese colored skin,

Missed highway exits become clearer

Only one of many gourmets we shared

And untasted by each of us.

“Hey, Jimi! It’s Me…I’m just trying to keep in-touch…”

Would say the voice-mail.

You are so sorry a man

That you didn’t talk to her much more

She told that she had Parkinson’s disease

You just found the paper she sent you.

Another ailment for her dosette box.

Oh, Mattie!!

Who protected me from your confederate mother

With the shotgun at her door

You said she didn’t approve

As if I was one of those other mutherfuckers.

Dropping you off with dignity after the ballgame,

When you had to move back in with family

Our love she refused to see

So we nicknamed her “Georgia Meany”.

Your dad flew contrails of migrating geese

After vehicles stopping to let them slowly pass,

In funeral processional.

Hearing your tender southern voice

On a past answering machine cassette,

So caring, vulnerable yet determined

You put up the brave front,

While breathing sometimes labored

That everything was alright,

Never wanting to be any trouble or burden to me.

Which didn’t cross my mind,

Just without the skills to cure Mattie,

Only morally support.

My playful Smokey Mountains-bred Rasta

Lemon-drop lover,

Her line has gone death;

Called her number just in case.

Never too much the worse for wear

With copious old believe it or not stories,

Like the last time you won a horse!

She has no more discomfort at last;

I guess you finally caught your breath.

Life is a bit lonelier now,

Even amid the glory.

Wandering Person; Solitary Failure

Head high shoulders straight,
Undressed and confess;
I messed-Up.
Thinking I would become good enough
To get paid for jocking the box,
Like my idol Frankie Crocker.
I am a loser sexagenarian;
Cannot even score
A female soul-mate
As planned with Inna in 2012 and before..

I fucked-up,
Chose the wrong path.
Higher educated and lower paid;
Can’t even seem to get laid!
The whole town of my college friends,
Is laughing at me.

“Dumbass! Shoulda got a REAL job!”

Now I am impoverished only child
Dependent upon maybe a lottery hit –
Or crowdfunding success.

I’ve disheartened desired
Ukraineskee number three.
First there was Inna,
Who found and funded me passport
I did not ask that favor!
She gave me hope like no other.

Then Tanya and Ala simultaneously;
I tried to replace her with.
More Tanya than Ala since 2015.
So (tak)I am fessing -up.

It is 2019 now.
Tanya created an excuse,
That her son was,
Troubled at the University in Kiev,
She had to travel to him;
Many miles in Ukraine to support!
Blowing-off her job,’
So she said;
That was three months ago.

Ala has written fewer letters
Via the dating site “Beauties…”
I am a Mickey Mouse loser;
Today she let me know,
She no longer believes also.
Inna said that too after waiting long too.
And Ala told she wants a baby –
Too for that shit, Heh.

I don’t blame them at all;
Why? I cry!! Real tears!
I am a contemporary American pauper cat.
Higher educated and less wealthy;
Current government and tech policies guarantee,
A failure relying upon a net of safety.

What gorgeous international lady,
That of my seven-year plan;
Wants to be strung-along,
In the lax company
Of a dreamer via internet,
Without any tangible gifts?

Who can latch onto,
The photo of a cool-looking
Long-distance guy,
Who seems to rent and never own?
Sounds so full of baloney I agree.
Now I’m in a new town
Trying again to throw-down,
Yet who knows how long I have to live.
A Baby Boomer representing all we are blessed to give.

I fucked-up all-in-all;
Wasted a university degree.
Nyet,”see-chas” I’m The Wandering Person,
Always making decisions to stay free.

Belonging punished to selfishly croon;
Unsatisfactorily home and alone;
With allergies killing me sans air conditioning!
Need to move and build my own space,
And will do it to it;
When and if my magic numbers from the Great Spirit grace.

Whipcrashed

WhipCrashed

Mild mid-January day,
Gift wrapping papered;
Clothed in Tweed birthday suit.
To shop for a treat;
Two new neighbors to meet,
Nearby a new watering hole to celebrate;
This one is a milestone!

Early evening now on the way.
A familiar route,
Around the corner from where I stay.
I cruise the usual way under the limit
When I spy small SUV begin to encroach,
From triangular gas station on my right.
I beeped as he entered the road;
It kept coming unbelievably fast!
Oh shit, oncoming headlights,
I tried to swerve to avoid it,
Then an explosive mid-ship crash!
Popping leather buttons on tweed jacket!
Like two laser robot eyes, they penetrate metal.

I couldn’t dodge it,
Now smoke, airbags and broken glass,
Windshield cracks like spider web.
More fumes permeate me,
Locked together in road suicide lane;
Oh My God! Then silence…will I die tonight?
Would flames be next? I pondered.
Panic attacks my chill,
Ignition won’t let key come out!
My sedan sad and totally demolished;
As was my left pollex wrenched trying to avoid him.

Days later neck pain persists;
Back out of wack.
I have had enough of this!
Weeks later, finding the gold side-view mirror,
In a pile of debris from my machine at roadside,
On the tri-point station property.
Months later I can still see
His oncoming headlights in my sleep,
And hear his bogus apology.

He claims it was me he could not see.
How about glasses and a pillow,
Little mister “failed to yield right-of-way”?
That is what his police summons say.
Now pray insurance, doctors and lawyers,
Awaiting his financial reparation sanction day.

Book Excerpt: “Kissin’ Kia”

Kissing a Kia was a nice ride,
A Pelvic glide;
Not a fender-bender no.
He drove a Pontiac at that time;
Then a Mustang.
She once wore horizontal back and white stripes,
They would make out sometime in his benzo.

Kissing Kia;
So how did that start?
Must have been those copious love letters,
Which I still find when looking for something else;
She penned them while in her class.
Giving her
Keeping her border secret
Impressed by my loyalty I guess,
Similarly needing a true friend was I,
She was not a drive-by.

Kissing Kia,
Coming, or better put,
Stopping-by my office to say hello,
Pulling me near in an embrace,
Very sexy she and I couldn’t avoid that face.
Well put-together by the love God Venus,
Body belied her age or another from the assembly line;
It was all I could muster not to think with my penis.

Kissing Kia,
How I wanted to hook-up,
Yet I couldn’t as I was older
While like the old Sam Cooke Song,
“She Was Only Sixteen…”
Only half of those lyrics applied;
She was one smart cookie,
To an intelligent older man drawn
While unsung will sensibly realize.

Kissing Kia was not fake.
Had she bragged to a friend however,
Would have been a Daily News headline cover,
I did not want to make.
Though her tender, well-built body
I yearned to take.

Kissing Kia drove to express her desires,
In no uncertain terms;
More mature than many ladies my own age,
And those guys of her generation;
Her flirtation taught me an important unknown page.
Why so blessed was I with this decision test?

Kissing Kia,
Upon a time of the whip-appeal era,
She is still Babyface alright with me.
A Kia with an Optima Sportage Soul,
French-kissingly Nero Forte,
Mashina I would still love to drive….

[from the book, “My God…U Practical Joker!” 2020 Amazon Books]

Check Me INN To Sleep Long And Deep

On-shore intentional,
(prayer)
Mid-week deep thought therapy meditational;
(Dependable incoming waves)
Positive, personal and focused,
(Stay)
Demons of Doubt cast away,
(Strong)
Settling Sea reinvigorates me.
(Tough)
Otis Redding watching the tide
(Disciplined music)
Mature enough to finally be an adult;
(Centered)
Still much of an only-child kid at-heart;
(Safety)
Keeping my head “on the swivel” on the stealth.
(Rebelliously streetwise)
James Baldwin’s “The Fire Next Time”
(Healthy)
Start my day with H2O Green tea,
(detox)
Vitamin and antioxidant augmented;
(Wealthy)
Pay myself first and I need another gig now!
(Banker)
Find a corner as ‘Aunt’ Nashville ‘second Mom’,
Della recommends I pray;
(Spiritual communication)
Alive so long as the sun rises and desires;
(Good habits)
Mama used to say.
(Timeless advises)
It is the calm-before-the-storm…again dammit.
(Cherish downtime)

Cicadas

Cicadas

You know its August

When you hear the Cicadas sing

Making that unique creepy sci-fi sound

As they flutter their wings.

Vibrating the air and buzzing in the trees.

In rural areas you see the holes

They emerge from underground;

Leaving moth-like carcasses

Frozen in time from which they escaped.

Their scary symphony is a reminder

A mid-summer night’s scream;

Cicadas remotely and sonic are

Pretty benign until you,

Notice one taking a ride

Upon your shoulder with

Them big, bugged-out eyes!

Oh my Gosh, they will shock you.

Cicadas, dog days of summer insect,

Orchestrating background noise;

Summer clicking and ticking;

Annoying Bugsy raiders.

In September the Crickets out-sing Cicadas.

 

 

Earrings

Where I work there is not enough street parking,
The company I work for created a small lot,
Which sits next to the concrete one for the executives.
The bed of the worker’s lot is grey gravel stones.

One chilly autumn morning I backed the car in
Off of the Gowanus Brooklyn street,
I got out against the chill,
Heading to the trunk to retrieve my leather jacket.
That is when something golden and shinny caught my eyes;
I was quick to identify it as jewelry.

Surely they were crushed by tires upon all of those stones!
Still attached to the little plastic thing used to display in stores,
On the reverse side was the price tag.
Even this was not too soiled to clean – I did;
Meaning these earrings hadn’t lain there for very long.

I picked them up,
Their shape reminds me of the sign for infinity;
The measure of time I will care for thee.
For now they adorn my office cubicle.
Showing them to some female coworkers,
“Must belong to ‘Beyonce’ “, one said.
She was referring to the rather stuck-up,
Asian-looking, double-breasted receptionist.
She thinks she is “all that” and is not pleasant.

Often praying and I wish you were here.
I could offer these earrings to you just for fun;
You would reject them as not real gold or second-hand.
“Costume jewelry” is the term I always heard mother use;
I believe you would appreciate it is the good thought that counts!

Knowing your ear lobes are not pierced,
I guess I will save them for you anyway.
When I picked them up,
They reminded me in another new way,
Of the past gifts you’ve sent to me;
All of which fit to the “T”,
Even when personally you had not met me!
And how my ears long for the ring of thy voice.

Seagulls Over Lagoon Bay

There once was a radio station slot that was dull,
Too many youngsters were cursing on the air.
The FCC dug the Vandy college campus station null.
Until a community volunteer named Gull
Produced a show named for a bird of the Sea,
That went on to become one that lives
In the WRVU radio hall of fame in infamy.
“Seagulls Over Nashville” was his name.
Conservative and down-home religious was his bent,
When not rocking-out judiciously on the air.

Now on sea-video for the first time,
It is another of his claims to fame,
Since the institution sold its soul and license to NPR
Into shame and meetings about it notwithstanding,
Turning talent out with a boot to the ass;
Faustian caring not about youthful human creativity,
Nor forming terrestrial trusts into perpetuity.
The Gull often squawks, “Not Urgent”
So that we do not take it seriously.

By Pebble Bay Beach

[With apologies to those who enjoy my poetry (or scorn and mock it) for taking so long between sharing my posts due to working a daily routine which includes helping my eighty-nine year old mum while I learn that New York City is not the place for my future with Nina.
I am on vacation from that world as I post these creative words from that neglected other aspect of my loyal inner self.]

By Pebble Bay Beach

Don’t grow cold on me.
Although in life,
There is war and strife;
Hold onto the cures that might,
Give you peace at night.
Such as me being your man,
Who will more than suffice.

Do not…grow cold on me.
For now almost twice a fortnight,
Upon our collective breast,
This silence is cast against winds
Though they may change directions,
My course is consistent and steady;
Yet, shaken by your sudden surprise absence.
So that when Our Father’s blessing finally comes,
The means to import you and yours;
I will be ready.

Clutch the dreams of your heart.
Even tighter within your fighting fists
Knowing each day we awake;
It carries a blessing and a risk.
A song by Neil Diamond enters my mind,
“Love On The Rocks” lol

Don’t…grow cold on me,
It is embarassing to see!
Allowing me to journey alone like a rudderless boat;
Without word or reason,
When others are gone;
In the disorienting foggy dawns,
That disclaims territory of inevitably changing seasons.